Chapter Forty-One

Adele

I managed to turn the blunt end of the spoon handle into a deeper oval, not quite the pointy edge I was hoping for, but at least it didn't splinter or break. It's now tucked securely into the side of my bra, reminding me that anything can be a weapon. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I'm grateful for my double Ds.

The spoon may be insignificant, but it's the anchor holding me together right now.

By the time Mezhen returns with a tattooed, barrel-chested guard, I'm ready—resolved to face whatever fate awaits me without flinching. I've survived worse odds.

"Is it time?" I grit out.

They both look somewhat nonplussed. I imagine the goon expected to have to drag me out.

"Yes," Mezhen says, watching me curiously as I leave the room.

"He's . . ." Mezhen starts, wringing her hands, and I look back at her. She hesitates as if searching for words. "He's waiting. For you."

There's no malice in her eyes, and yet there's a hint of something dark. Something that looks a lot like envy, but I can't be sure. Suddenly, I want to know her story. I have a feeling she might have arrived in the country under conditions similar to Aydin's, yet Mezhen might as well still be in shackles for all the freedom she appears to have.

Is she a . . . slave?

And why I'm suddenly so concerned about another woman's predicament when I might be facing a worse fate is beyond me. Without another glance at Mezhen, I follow the guard out.

And find Benjamin pacing the red-carpeted hallway.

"There you are!" He comes to me and takes my elbow, which makes me flinch.

"I see no point in pretending now, so you can take that filthy hand off me." I snap and start to walk as fast as my billowy skirt will allow.

He sighs with exaggerated patience and catches up to me. "Trust me. When you meet your husband, you'll be glad I held your hand."

I stumble, throwing my arms out. Benjamin smoothly catches me and steadies me on my feet.

I'll be glad he held my hand?

If Benjamin meant to scare me, he just succeeded because my bladder suddenly lurches, even though I've just been to the bathroom.

Although the answer couldn't be clearer if it were written in neon lights across his forehead, I'm still unable to stop myself from asking him. "Was it ever real . . . Did you ever even love me?"

He replies blandly as the guard nudges us to move down the hallway. "You are my daughter, Adele. Of course, I love you. You just don't realize how much danger you're in with those Italians."

I shake my head, trying a last-ditch effort to make him understand. "Have you for once considered that I might actually want to be with those Italians?"

"They killed your mother. They're still trying to kill you."

"They're my family!" I say, my voice getting more frantic as we near the end of the hallway. "They never tried to kill me. They found the real killer and have been protecting me."

"Is that the bullshit they fed you?" He scoffs, as we reach a tall oak door.

"That's the truth. They're the only reason I'm alive right now. So, you see, you can still stop the war. You don't have to do this. They'll come after every single one of you if you sell me off to this guy."

"Oh, I'm not worried about retaliation since they won't exist after tonight." He pushes the door and holds it open for me to enter.

Oh shit. Here we go.

***

We enter a long room reeking of stale cigarette smoke. Thick white columns carved with intricate designs rise from the floor to the ceiling and bracket the aisle. Recessed lighting casts a bluish glow across the space.

I notice the glaring lack of windows, which makes me wonder if we are in a basement. The walls are draped in rich white silk wallpaper, subtly patterned with delicate motifs that catch the light. The floors are polished concrete, buffed to a mirror sheen. A ventilation system hums quietly, barely managing to disperse the heavy smoke.

If I hadn't grown accustomed to the Vitelli brand of luxury, I might have been slightly impressed with this attempt at underground opulence.

The room is bare, except for the painted white wooden altar at the end of the narrow aisle between the pillars. The altar sits on a raised dais, its edges and posts adorned with red roses.

Somehow the sight of those roses, like drops of blood in the otherwise white room, seems so out of place. It sends icy fingers of fear tracing down my back.

Benjamin's hand forces me into the room when I hesitate on the threshold. This time I let him. I'm too busy craning my neck to see the person at the other end of the aisle.

But there's no groom waiting for me. The altar stands empty.

What I do see behind the last giant pillar at the very end of the aisle nearly makes my heart stop. Standing there, next to a stone-faced guard is Kira, her unseeing eyes wide with fear.

The pieces snap into place—Benjamin must have used her to get to Aydin and then me. A wave of guilt and fear washes over me, making my knees weak. Kira's here because of me, in danger because of me.

But when I see what she's wearing, hysterical laughter bubbles up in my throat, much to Benjamin's chagrin. The dress is an abomination—a sickly green and brown thing that looks like it was dragged through a swamp. It's ill-fitting and made of a material that's clearly driving Kira mad. As if on cue, she scratches her arms furiously.

Looks like I wasn't the only one left half-naked and freezing with no choice but to put on a revolting dress.

My snicker echoes in the room, and Kira's head snaps up.

"Addy? Is that you? Oh my God! They're smarter than I gave them credit for! I swear, when I talked, I didn't think they'd actually be able to break you out of the Fortress. I'm so sorry—"

Her words cut off as the beefy man beside her shoves a gun against her temple, a nudge for her to be quiet.

"Asshole," Kira hisses.

My laughter dies instantly, replaced by a cold dread settling in my stomach. Seeing Kira in danger because of me makes the reality of our situation hit home with brutal force.

And then the doors open. I whip my head around, my pulse a staccato rhythm in my ears.

A paunchy priest enters first, followed by a man who seems to have crawled out of someone's nightmare. He stalks down the aisle, leisurely, trailing far behind the priest, his gaze locked onto mine with sniper-like precision. Finally, he reaches me, planting himself directly in front of me.

Is the universe playing a cosmic joke on me?

He's tall. Almost as tall as Dante, but that's where the similarities end. He's wearing a suit with the shirt half unbuttoned to reveal heavy gold necklaces. His lean, sinewy chest is covered in tattoos that creep up his neck and onto half his face. One entire eyeball is tattooed black. Stringy black hair is braided at his nape, and his thin lips part in a sinister smile to reveal chipped and missing teeth.

A violent shudder runs through me, and I have to force myself not to run from the room.

"Who's there, Addy?" Kira asks, her nose wrinkling. "They reek of tobacco and garlic."

I can't speak, too horrified by what I'm seeing.

"Shut up," her captor growls, shoving the barrel of the gun harder against her temple.

"Oww! In case you haven't noticed, jerk, I can't see. I need people to make sounds or talk to me."

A part of me admires Kira for taking this remarkably well, but then again, it's Kira. I'm not really surprised. I draw more strength from that and force myself to stay calm.

The man before me speaks, his raspy voice just as repulsive as his appearance. "Your daughter's gonna fit in nicely here, Ben O'Shea. Such a sweet little thing."

Benjamin nods tightly and steps away.

He says to me. "Listen, little dove, the name's Sean Hall. But around here, you call me your King."

Sean Hall? I think, barely suppressing a snort even as my stomach turns. It is such a mundane, normal name for a man who looks like he clawed his way out of a back alley fight club.

He doesn't look or sound like a Sean Hall. He looks like a Krull the Destroyer or Gorlock the Defiler. Something that matches his grotesque appearance and the malevolence oozing from his every pore. Sean Hall sounds like he should be selling insurance, not leading a gang of criminals.

Kira makes a sound that's a cross between a shocked gasp and a disgusted gag.

My sentiments exactly, I think, fighting to keep my expression perfect: Terrified but not repulsed. Reluctant but not resistant.

I remind myself of those very first mindset lessons with Dante. I thought they were boring and useless, and had been all too eager to move on to the juicy part of trying out the lethal moves. But now I see how Sean's initial impression of me could make or break my plan.

He must not see me as a threat.

I square my shoulders and give him a tremulous smile, hoping it doesn't come off as a grimace of disgust. He smiles back at me, and I want to gag.

He reaches out to finger a lock of my hair. "Look at all that red. That perfect soft skin just begging for my marks. Little dove, I can't wait to fill up every damn hole you got."

I'm sorry, I can't do this. It's going to be too hard to pretend I'm not picturing all the delightful ways I'd like to kill this monster.

Kira's horrified gasp breaks the ensuing silence, but Sean, apparently, isn't done trying to make us vomit, because he says, "You're welcome to stay and watch me fuck your daughter, Ben. See that your down payment is well received."

"That will not be necessary," Benjamin mutters, a hard glint in his otherwise impassive face.

Sean shrugs, laughing—a grating, terrible sound. "Your call. Offer still stands." Now, he faces the priest, who looks bored. Or stoned? I'm not sure which. "Let's get this shit over and done with."

The ceremony starts in a blur. I repeat strange vows that sound more like an initiation chant, spurred on by the gun aimed at Kira's head. As the priest finishes, Sean produces a wicked-looking knife, its blade gleaming in the harsh light.

"Now, we seal our union in blood," Sean growls, his black eye glinting with malicious glee.

He grabs my hand roughly, slicing a deep cut across my thumb. I bite back a cry of pain as he does the same to his own. Then, with a grip like iron, he presses our bleeding thumbs together.

"Blood of my blood," he intones, his voice thick with anticipation. "Bound in life, bound in death."

Before I can react, he brings my bleeding thumb to his mouth, his tongue darting out to lick the wound. I fight the urge to recoil as he savors the taste, a low groan escaping him.

"Sweet," he murmurs, his eyes locked on mine. "Just like I knew you'd be, little dove."

Then, with deliberate slowness, he pushes his own bloody thumb into my mouth. The metallic taste makes me gag, but I force myself to remain still.

"There," Sean leers, his fetid breath hot on my face. "Now you've got a taste of your king. Very soon, you'll be choking on a lot more than that."

The vulgarity of his words, the sight of my blood on his teeth, and the feeling of his blood on my tongue make my stomach roil. He pulls away, trailing his bleeding thumb across my lips down my chin, the side of my neck, and my arm, leaving a crimson stain on my white dress.

I know that this is only the beginning of the horrors to come.